


Quid Pro Quo

by drippingwithsin



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Murder, Mutilation, Silence Of The Lambs/Hannibal AU, mentions of torture, not too graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-25 18:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drippingwithsin/pseuds/drippingwithsin
Summary: Do the lambs still scream for you, Andréa? Do you wake in the middle of the night, hearing their cries? Their screams. Oh, but you can never quite reach them in time, can you? Reaching, reaching always reaching. We live too much on hope, you and I.





	1. Chapter 1

Trudging behind an immense being in glaringly white orderly scrubs, Agent Sachs boldly strides through the valley of the shadow of death, going deeper and deeper to the source of evil. Her disheveled mass of hair maned around her face, back straight her fearless facade is only belied by the pounding of her heart and dewy palms. 

Doe eyes glance around. Immaculately sterilized and strangely dislocate Elias-Clarke State Hospital for the criminally insane is just like any other hospital really. Yet-there’s just something unnerving about this place. Something Andy can’t quite put her finger on.  
  
Death. Death lurks here. Comes a whisper at the back of her mind.

A long-buried primal fight or flight response keeps kicking in more the deeper they go.  

And boooy does she want to choose the latter.

_“Tell me, Sachs, have you ever heard of the Torch Project?”_

_She mulls over the name a bit. Just a few minor details pop out, but nothing concrete.“Only a little bit.”_

_Hand cupping his chin, Jackson gives a nod before going on to elaborate. “It’s basically a process in creating an enormous extensive database of the most violent of offenders across the globe.”_

_Her curiosity peaks. “What sort of information will they be looking for?”_

_“They’ve come up with a questionnaire, dealing with all types. From the criminally insane to the thrill seekers. But my guess they mainly will want to know their state of mind and family settings. You know, the big ‘why?’ of it all.”_

_She nods in agreement. “How many are in it so far?”_

_“Just over these past six months alone, we’ve already attempted to interview thirty-six known serial killers. Most thankfully have complied fully, though, truthfully I suspect it’s merely a way to gloat. Thirty of which are willing to cooperate. Five on death row with appeals pending and are now born again Christians have refused, understandably. But the one we want the most, we haven't been able to get. I want you to go after her tomorrow in the asylum."_

_Andy perks, leaning forward on the edge of her seat. "Oh? Who is it?"_

_He cuts her a serious look over his glasses. No doubt readying to gauge her reaction. "Dr. Miranda Priestly,"_

_At the mere mention of the name, Andy’s blood runs cold and an onslaught of graphic images flickers through her mind like a cinematic reel. Captured ten years ago after a string of horrific murders shook the United States to its very core, Miranda Priestly held and still holds the title of being the evilest woman to walk this earth since well, ever. Her deeds once brought into the light, sent shockwaves throughout the entire world. How could a person, a woman no less be capable of such atrocities? The question was on everybody’s minds and the news for weeks. Yet no real answer was ever given._

_Blooding surging in her eardrums, Andy swallows thickly. “The Devil in Prada?”_

_He merely nods.  
_

Damn him. He was supposed to be her mentor but decided to throw her to the lions. And for what? Over her sex. Because turns out the boys upstairs think a woman may have a better chance in appealing to Dr. Priestly since you know all gals flock together and all that. Ha freaking ha.

From the information, she’s gathered over the weeks Dr. Priestly is barely even a human much less a woman so this is not going to be a slumber party. No this is more like a lamb being sent slaughter.

Assholes. Bunch of chicken shit assholes.   

The duo turns and weaves through corridor after corridor, passing a few with noises coming from them that put Andy right on the edge of curiosity and frightened out of her damn mind.

Andy shivers, getting as close to her escort as possible without being considered rude. “Has um, has Dr. Priestly ever been out of this place?”

The orderly slows beneath a dim flickering light. “Once a few years back.” He rumbles over his shoulder. “She pretended to fall out sick in her cell so we took her to the nurse’s station. At the time she seemed truly sick enough, heart rate was low and what not. The doctor at the time musta thought so too because he bent over to check her vitals. Turned out to be a big mistake on his part.”

There’s a heavy pause and he continues.

“Took three of us to pry her teeth from his throat, but by that time it was too late she'd already ripped out his jugular." It was said in an odd faux solemn tone. "Now, if she has to be brought out outside for anything, anything at all, she has to wear full restraints and a mouthpiece."  
  
Plump lips doing their best impression of a guppy, Andy wasn’t sure what to say at the moment so she said nothing at all.

The duo walked through the final door which opened up into another narrow hall, this one, however, coming to a dead end. Doubled barred cells lined the walls on each side. Cages within cages they each held a creature more dangerous than any animal at the zoo.

 “Alright, it's very last one separated from the rest. Stay toward the middle of the corridor as you go down, and don't mind anything you see or hear. Oh and here,” He hands her a thick book on psychiatry along with a fashion magazine. “She’ll appreciate these. There’s a slot for which you can pass things back and forth through. It’s too narrow for her arm to get through fast so you’ll be safe giving her this."

Andy nods, tucking it underneath her right arm.

“I'll meet you there shortly I have to go back and check on some inmates.”

Wait, is he leaving her? She opens her mouth to object, but finds herself alone. Well, hell. Andy takes in a steeling breath before beginning her trek.

Hoots and jeers announce her presence, growing more boisterous with each passing one. Keep to the middle, keep staring ahead and for the love of God don’t let them get to you. She mentally chants all the while keeping her posture straight.

_“I smell pussy!”_

Andy cringes in revulsion and quickens her pace, choosing to ignore the cackle that echoed from behind.   

Isolated from the rest by an enormous gap between the second to the last and her own, Priestly’s cell is startlingly different from the rest. The sides were built with standard concrete blocks like the others, but the front consisted entirely of clear plexiglass, leaving everything inside exposed. Including the monster who dwells in it.

Reclining in the centre of the cot, the doctor sits impossibly regal in the sterilized setting while thumbing through a vintage _Runway_.

Heart mimicking that of a hummingbird's, Andy approaches the glass cautiously but keeps a respectable distance.

"Dr. Priestly."

The doctor glances up from her reading. Sapphire eyes glinting in the artificial lighting as they land on Andy. Curious, frosty and suspicious they study her thoroughly.

Oh God. Andy tries to steel herself. But her heart isn’t having it. The Judas of an organ picks up pounding and sending blood to cheeks, neck and ears.

"My name is Andy Sachs. May I speak with you?"

A tense moment passes with the only the sound of blood roaring in the young woman's ears breaking the silence. She swallows thickly, deciding to try once more.

“Dr. Priestly?”

The doctor slips from the bunk in a whisper of cloth and it takes all the young woman’s self-control to keep from gaping. The photos in the database didn’t do her justice.  
  
She was absolutely gorgeous.

Her average borderline petite body, clad in a hideously beige uniform, moves with practiced fluidly as she begins to stroll over. That grace combined with natural feminine curves, a snowy white crown of hair and crystal blue eyes gives her an almost feline likeness.

The beauty, however, does not entirely mask the true nature of the beast.

The eyes of a tigress peer into that of the doe. Watching, waiting and calculating. The doctor tilts her head to the side. Eyelids go half masked.

She’s studying you. Andy concludes.

_“It’s just so damn rare to find one alive and a woman at that.” Irv, the Elias-Clarke’s administrator, states at her cleavage._

_“One what?”_

_“A pure sociopath.”_

Andy shudders.

"And who are you again?" The doctor suddenly questions, the aristocratic low murmur of her voice like expensive whiskey over ice. Smooth, rich and chilling.

 **TBC**....

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a little game then, shall we? A quid pro quo if you will.  
> Mentions of torture. Murder.

 

The fine hair along forearms prickles uncomfortably beneath the sleeves of her sweater.

“Good morning, Doctor, my name is Andy Sachs from Behavioral science. I’m here about the questionnaire.” The young trainee once again inwardly cringing at how rushed it sounded.

A tense moment passes. Miranda never blinks.

"The questionnaire for the Torch project, I presume.”

Andy stands a bit straighter, clasping her hands behind her back in an attempt to hide the trembling. "Yes,"

“May I see some identification please?”

Now _that_ she hadn’t expected.  Andy blinks stupidly. “Excuse me?”

Miranda stares back.

“Oh,” Andy tugs an embarrassing worn out briefcase into her lap and goes fishing.

“Well, by all means, move at a glacial pace I have nowhere else to be.”

The back of Andy’s neck heats at the words and thankfully- _thankfully-_ she finally finds one.

She places the laminated I.D. card on top of the psychiatry book and magazine and pushes the items through the slot, where they slid across the tray in a harsh metallic swoosh.

Miranda picks up the card and traces over the entire thing languidly, drinking in every detail like fine wine. Her eyes suddenly narrow into slits.

Oh shit.

“A trainee.” The doctor murmurs coldly before glancing over the card to glare at Andy. “They sent a trainee. A mere student to interview me? Have I truly fallen that far from grace? A washover that I've become a college senior’s final grade mark.”

Andy sours, grumbling. “I’ve already taken my final tests.”

“Oh well, that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?” The glare turns impassive. Arctic. Andy shivers. “So tell me, Andréa. Have you even heard of me before?”

Heat spiders its way across pale cheek at the pronunciation of her name and she just barely manages a meager.  “Yeah,”

But in all honesty, who hasn’t heard of the Devil in Prada? She was/is right up there with Ted Bundy and Dahmer.

“Well imagine _that_ miracles do happen. But in this case, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I’ll have to thank mostly Wikipedia for your little insight.”

The light pinkening on pale cheeks bleeds crimson.

“I-” She’s about to say something stupid, can feel she’s about to say something stupid. Thankfully, however, the sound of footsteps approaching stifle any and all comments.

The orderly from earlier appears, lumbering over to them.

“Everything alright, Ms. Sachs?” He inquires, brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah,” She nods, with a tight forced smile, watching at the corner of her eye as Miranda slides her card back through, politely holding onto it for her to take.

Placing the item back in her bag, Andy glances back to the other woman who is currently staring at her with all the interest of scientist trying to find a cure for cancer. She stumbles a bit. “About the questionnaire-”

“Well since you’ve already taken it upon yourself to disrupt my entire day with your useless babbling why don’t you pull up a chair.”

Andy fights down her agitation valiantly and glances around the area. “Um, there isn’t one out here.”

Lips purse in displeasure. Miranda turns her head to the orderly, one finely sculpted brow raising. “Why is there no chair out for Andréa?”

“I don’t think-” He begins.

“No,” Miranda shakes her head. “You don’t. Do you truly not care that a young lady has to remain standing because of your barbaric lack of chivalry?”

“Oh um, sorry I-”

“That’s all.”  

He disappears only to reappear a few seconds later, a metal folding chair in hand.

Miranda visibly relaxes at the sight, tension easing by the show of obedience. She still keeps her glare on.

The orderly takes upon himself to unfold and place beside Andy.

“You let me know if there’s anything else you need, Ms. Sachs. I’ll be watching.” He rumbles, ghosting back into the shadows; close enough to be helpful, but far enough away give them some privacy.  

Andy sits slightly forward in the chair, back straight as an arrow while Miranda fetches her own.

"Now," The doctor sits down casually in front of Andy. Her short muscular legs cross in a ladylike fashion and hands on her thighs. "what did Claudia say to you?"

Chestnut brows furrow. "I’m sorry, who?"

"Claudia Baxter, in the cell down there. She spat something at you. What did she say?" The doctor explains with a faux amount of patience.

Andy turns nine shades of red. “Oh um-” She tries to clear her throat of bashfulness.“She said uh she said, 'I smell pussy.'"

A strong nose crinkles almost cutely(almost). "How vulgar, yet--” Miranda closes her eyes and inhales deeply. A subtle rumble reverberates from her throat. Christ, did she just purr? She opens them again, revealing blown pupils. ”Why I myself cannot smell it, I do your _Chanel’s_ _Coco_ _Mademoiselle_ perfume.”

What? How? They're separated by glass and concrete for Christ’s-

“It’s a delightful fragrance. Both light and feminine, but not overly so. It suits you.”

“Um, thank you.”

“Was it a gift? I highly doubt a trainee such as yourself could afford such luxuries.” Miranda comments dryly picking an imaginary piece of lint from her shirt.

Mildly insulted, Andy attempts to retort. “My fri-”

“Ah yes, the rich ex-boyfriend?”

Andy shifts and there’s a subtle glint to her eyes. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“No. Wait. That’s not correct, is it? No, it was your ex- _girlfriend._ ”  The doctor’s nostrils flare, drawing in a breath to scent the air. “No matter at least this one had excellent taste.”

How in the--? How did she know that? Okaaay. This was starting to freak her out a bit.

Miranda makes a show of raking her gaze over the other woman. Her expression turns to borderline disgust. “Sadly she didn't have a hand in picking out your clothing as well.”

What? Andy glances down at her light blue sweater over a modest dark wool shirt and frowns. What the hell was wrong with what she had on? She opens her mouth to be indignant and reconsiders. Curiosity reigning over agitation, Andy had to know. “How did you know about the perfume?”

“Your card; it was nearly dripping with it. You really must stop carrying around perfume bottles in your purse. They leak terribly.”  The doctor explains matter of factly before just as quickly changing the subject. "Now tell me, what do you know about the Seamstress?"

Andy straightens at the familiar name. The Seamstress or New York's newly emerged serial killer was the thing of nightmares. Slowly climbing to the gory top with each one of their conquests, they leave them (the bodies) out in the open mouths all agape and twisted in terror with not an ounce of skin left their bodies. Even more sickening was the fact, the victims were not left fully exposed. No, every one of them was clad in suits specially tailored for them using the skin of other people. Hence the reason for the name. Not to mention, that the only foreign DNA found on each victim was female. 

"Nothing much really just what everybody else does." She lies attempting to be nonchalant.

“How disappointing." Miranda drawls slowly, her expression mimicking her tone. "Yet," The eyes of Lilith flicker to Eve's. They see through everything. "Considerably admirable that you think you can lie to me.” 

Andy's heart drops and blood runs cold. Oh God, “Dr. Priestly, as you have said yourself I’m still just a trainee.” She tries to explain quickly, throwing her inexperience under the bus.

A snowy mane tilts slowly to the right as the other woman seems to contemplate something for a moment. There's some sort of hidden conclusion and finally, she speaks again. 

“Very well, since you are so _terribly_ young and inexperienced how about we play a little game then, shall we? A quid pro quo if you will. You tell me something, and I’ll tell you.”

Andy opens her mouth to immediately decline but is cut off by a wave of Miranda’s hand.   

“Look at this as an opportunity to finally get all answers to those burning little questions in _that_.” She looks pointedly at the folder laying seemingly forgotten in Andy’s lap.

“Um, I really don’t think that’s a good--”

Her plea is heard but blatantly ignored.

“Quid pro quo, Andréa. How many bodies have been found so far?”

For a split second, Andy wonders if such information should be given out. After all, this is a serial killer she was speaking to for Christ’s sakes. On the other hand, she _was_ told in not so many words, to get information from the doctor no matter what the cost.

“Six.”

“Six.” The doctor repeats, the tone oddly disbelieving. “Just six.”

“Yes,”

A few seconds of silence pass. Miranda just stares at her. Lips pressing together. Why wasn’t she talking? It’s like she’s waiting for some- OH.

Chocolate eyes going wide, Andy scrambles for the questionnaire and pen. She reads the first one. “How many people have you killed?”

A finely shaped brow raises at the overly blunt question and just by that action alone, Andy can tell she’s not going to get an answer for this one. Son of a bit-

"All mutilated?" It comes out of the blue catching the trainee off guard.

"What?” Andy asks dumbly and is cut down with a ‘You can’t really be stupid’ look. She blushes hotly.

“Oh um, yes,"

“How were they mutilated?”

“They were all um, skinned.” Andy cringes. Some FBI agent she'll make. Can't even stomach thinking about gore. 

“Why did you mutilate and cannibalize all your victims?”

“Victims? They were hardly victims. They were rude people. With rude intentions and behavior flaws not fit for society. I simply cut out the rot.” She states simply with an odd sense of pride as if she’s some sort of vigilante. Nausea churns, turning Andy’s stomach unpleasantly.

The doctor presses onward, seemingly oblivious to the girl’s plight. “And all these bodies; they were all skinned alive, were they not?”

“Yes,”

Another hum.

“Did you ever torture your victims?” Andy asks more out of morbid curiosity than for sake of feeling out the questionnaire.

“Depends on one's definition of torture.” She drawls with no hint of amusement and the pursuit begins anew.   

“How were they skinned?”

“From the evidence gathered they seem to think the killer used catfish skinning pliers along with a scalpel.” Andy feels a sickening twinge at the mere thought. God, she can’t even imagine the pain those people must have gone through.

She glances back down at the questionnaire and heats when she spots the next one. 

“Did you uh sexually enjoy the acts?”

Miranda narrows her eyes, but only just slightly at her. "Are all the questions on that little rag going to be so crudely personal?"

 _Shitshitshit_ She needs to rectify this and quickly. “Yes, um we just want insight as to why.”

“Why? Always why with you people. There always has to be a reason, doesn’t it?”

“I’d like to think so.” Andy blurts out.

“Now it’s my turn to ask why. Do you truly believe that if I had endured some sort of horrific childhood experience that it will humanize me somehow? Make my work more understanding?”

She studies Andy's no doubt transparent expression of agreement and continues.

“Yes, yes you do. Like most, you don’t want to admit that a person may be capable of doing such without there being some bleeding heart cause.” Miranda says with a fair amount of disdain.

“Well, psychiatrists say-” Andy begins, white-knuckling the questionnaire in her grasp.

“Ah, psychiatrists, the last one I spoke to outside of these walls I ate his heart, and lungs in a lovely dish of bopis over steamed rice.” Sapphire eyes sparkling, Miranda sticks her tongue in corner of her mouth until the tip just barely peeks out.

She’s goading you, again. Andy bristles with anger, but feels her stomach traitorously rebel at the conjured images. God this woman.

Miranda’s lips give a tiny quirk, and she leans forward in her seat. “So tell me, Andréa. Do you think I’m evil now?”

 **TBC**....

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Catfish pliers/skinners are well, used for skinning catfish. Best way I can describe them is a cross between pliers and fingernail clippers. They are used to grip and pull the skin since catfish have no scales. My great aunt worked in a maximum security prison and she said there was a man on death row who did that to his ex-girlfriend. All and all, not a pretty way to go.  
> *Bopis is a spicy Filipino dish made from minced pig/cow's lungs and heart and yes even sometimes liver. Yummy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of insight from the doctor herself.

Fate’s a fickle being, Miranda muses idly while tracing every centimeter of plexiglass sill. There’s a tiny crack just to the very right corner. She studies the dark slightly rusty lines spiderwebbing across the stark white concrete, eyes pensive. Just this morning her main concern was the amount of dampness seeping through these walls from the recent rainstorms now-

Her gaze flickers back to the pathetic creature before her who is currently fluttering about desperately akin to a moth captured in merciless claws of a cat.

Ah yes, Agent Sachs with her faux bravado, overly expensive perfume and inferior clothing. She appears in a flourish of stuttered words and demands. A thick folder clutched tightly to her chest like a security blanket.   

But Miranda sees her for what she truly is.

And to the goddess of death, a sacrificial lamb wrapped in a mockery of the shade cerulean is presented.

But is this particular lamb truly a lamb or a cub attempting to cut in its first set of teeth?

Miranda rakes her gaze along Andréa’s body. Tall and lean, the girl sits slightly hunched as if she’s too terrified to show even a sliver of belly lest she be gutted. The pale skin only exposed on her delicate Disney princess face and slender hands seems nearly luminescent within the gloomy artificial lighting and contrasted against a disheveled mane of dark hair. Miranda thinks briefly of how beautiful it will look painted with splashes of crimson before moving on. Her eyes, large and bovinelike, brim with a level of innocence one just doesn’t see in her type of work.

She didn’t choose her career. Miranda concludes. One heartbeat swiftly followed another tells a different story, however. Beyond the nativity and brightness, Miranda sees it. An overwhelming amount of pain that can only come from a mother’s rejection.  

She tried to clip your wings, but you showed her, didn’t you? After all, no career is more trying and has more respect than the agency.

No, Andréa was not forced to choose law enforcement she _specifically_ wanted it.

_Well, aren’t we quite the rebel._

They exchange one-sided banter, questions before Miranda finally suggests the game. And although she will not partake in the questionnaire personally she will, however, give the hungry little pup something to gnaw on all the while receiving a larger portion for herself. 

So it continues. 

The questions are basic(at first) then turn embarrassingly personal(sexual) and to her delight the most brilliant shade of red blossoms across pale cheeks. Oh, I was right you do look lovely in crimson. She pictures the girl shucked of those hideous bargain rags and clad in a low cut jersey dress of the same shade. Dark hair silken and glimmering with health falling around alabaster shoulders and with eyes like two smoldering pits of the most deliciously sinful level of hell.

The imagine is enticing, to say the least.

Yet, the girl’s not ready for such a thing. She needs to grow, develop, bloody hands and teeth first. The potential there is faint, buried beneath self-righteousness and the greater goods, but she can feel it just beneath the surface, radiating out in tempting waves. Right then, Miranda decides to test this girl. She mentions a lovely meal she had back in ninety-four which consisted mainly of a very rude psychiatrist by the name of Stephen Thompson.

She hates rude people and even more so when the said person is a pretentious rich bastard who thinks only of his fragile masculinity, money, and cock.  

As predicted, Andréa turns a bit green around the gills at the knowledge, but there’s a telltale glint in her eye that can only come from one thing.

 _Curiosity killed the cat._  
  
_Ah, but satisfaction brought it back._

Miranda goes in for the kill. 

_“Do you think I’m evil now?”_

The girl blanches a bit, sputtering and paling all the while attempting to maintain a level of professional impassiveness. Oh Andréa, such an open book, aren’t you?

“You do, don’t you? Of course, you do. Because labeling someone as evil is easier than accepting that cruelty and conflict are basic human traits.”

Because of course, little Andréa does. She doubtlessly scoops and releases household pests instead of squashing them. Ever the bleeding heart. 

“I don’t think killing and eating people is normal.” The girl counters appalled.

_There's a shocker._

An impulsive eye roll is thankfully substituted by a lecture of sorts.“You know it never ceases to amaze me; the godlike complexity of mankind. We see ourselves above the natural order of things. Untouchable. So when something occurs to remind us that we are indeed not it’s considered shocking and abnormal, and yes, even evil.”

“So you’re saying not all acts considered evil are?” Doe eyes shimmer with an underlining spark of challenge.

“To most they are,” Miranda admits. Human beings and their driven in morals. Whatever will become of society without their religious preprograms. “Yet to people like me; it’s merely a means of _survival_.”

“Eating people is a means of survival?” Her pale face scrunches in horrified disbelief, but there’s something else there. Something Miranda despises immensely.

She cuts the girl a vicious look, eyes boring into her very soul. “Oh, you like to judge me, don’t you? Do you know what you look like to me, with your inferior clothes and oddly expensive perfume? A smart little fat girl riding the coattails of any superior who will show you the time of day. So desperate for everybody’s approval. Especially- _mommy’s_.”

And there it is; the confirmation written all over a sweet face. Chocolate eyes go wide and plump lips fall open. Yes, I know and see all you silly girl.

The knife is driven in deeper. Miranda decides to twist the blade.  

“But she never cared, did she? No. You’re too soft. _Weak_. So your career was specifically chosen, wasn’t it? A final act of insubordination to show them all your greatness.”

Unable to meet her eye any longer, Andréa stares down at her hands laying uselessly in her lap and nibbles on her bottom lip. Reminding Miranda of a thoroughly chastised child.

The victory is short lived when the most unpredictable thing happens.

She raises her head to face Miranda. Chin wobbling and bovine eyes watery. “You think you know me so well. But at least I’m brave enough to come in here to face you. You won’t even look at the questionnaire, so you tell me, Doctor, just who’s the one here desperate for attention.”

Well, well the little lamb has teeth after all. Miranda feels a burst of amusement. How adorable. She faintly resists the urge to coo. That’s it show me all the ferocity you can muster. Miranda decides to play with her just to see another glimpse.

“I admit being confined has me a bit- antsy. So perhaps a part of me does want your attention. Does that bother you, Andréa? To be in the spotlight of such an _evil_ person?”

“No,” Her eyes flicker away just for a mere split second. The action is subtle, quick. It tells all.

 _Liar, Liar pants on fire._ Miranda just barely manages to stifle a smirk. “Really?” She tilts her head slowly to the right with feigned interest. “How intriguing. I suppose Jackson prepared you more than I suspected.”

A heavy moment of silence falls over them.

There’s a shuffle of paper, clearing of the throat and when Andréa speaks once more her voice is more confident. Determined. “Do you still feel the urge to kill even after all these years?”

Miranda merely stares back, her mind fades. Sprawled out across prestin white carpeting Andréa lays her limbs in artistic disarray and sensually cut dress the perfect shade of the same liquid spilling from her swanlike porcelain neck.

_“Dr. Priestly?”_

Her sable maned head is turned toward Miranda, dark eyes filmed over with death. They’re staring at her. Let me be your victim.

_“Dr. Priestly?”_

The scene distorts and changes, a man now lays where Andréa once had. His body in a business suit.

 _He was a very rude man_. Comes a low murmur close by. Too close. Miranda turns only to find Andréa standing next to her clothed in that ridiculous cerulean sweater and wool skirt, a butcher knife at her side. Its blade gleams, dripping with scarlet life. Head cocked, expression impassive, the girl stares down at the body with unwavering fascination.

“ ** _Dr. Priestly!”_ **

The whispered shout of her name cuts through the fog. Miranda blinks. Once, twice, and by the third, all the cobwebs are gone, revealing the all too real slightly puzzled concerned face of Andréa.

“Are you alright?”

Miranda gives a sharp nod only to contradict the gesture a second later. “No.”

The confusion is back. So painfully clear on those sweet features it almost halts Miranda’s next move. Almost.

“The answer to your question." She further elaborates. "No. Not for some time now.”  A lure is cast out now all she has to do is wait. It does not take long. 

“Well, I guess that’s good, huh?”  Andréa says with an awkward laugh, her posture blooming, relaxing under the new information.

Miranda lets out a low hum all the while a smiling internally. Yes, she'll take this little upstart under her wing. Guild her with willing hand, and chosen words. Build her up to greatness. To full glory. And then and only then will she'll unleash her upon the world.   

_Perhaps her legacy will live on after all._

 

**TBC...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy makes a startling connection.

**Three Days Later**

In the dim grimy basement of Behavioral Science, Andy sits beside an old eighties projector, staring at the picture illuminating the far wall. It’s trigger held tightly in her grasp, thumb hovering over the button.

Click.

The professionally taken photo of an older gentleman appears. His silver head of hair is combed back away from a chiseled face revealing a pair of beautiful blue eyes sparkling with a well of wisdom only time itself can bring. Leaving Andy to conclude his age range to be around the late fifties to early sixties. Though nowadays who can tell. With money anything is possible. His broad shoulders and torso are clad in an expensively tailored steel grey business suit. Arms crossed, he holds himself posed with authority. A true alpha amongst the elite.

Maximilian “Max” Richerson, 56, WM of New York, New York.

An ongoing patient in Dr. Miranda Priestly’s psychiatric practice. On, October 12, 1994, Mr. Richerson failed to appear from his job at a major law firm. Three days later his body was found in his second home in the Hamptons.

_“Your card tells me you have a birthday coming up. Are you excited?”  The doctor mentions idly after they have finished another disastrous round of questioning._

_“No, not really.” Andy admits with a shrug._

Click.

The same man appears once more just as well dressed as before, but now sporting a casual black-tie tuxedo with golden cufflinks. In a plain white-washed room with cherrywood trimming, he sits alone at one end of mahogany dining room table posed and ready to eat. This time, however, there’s something off.

_There’s a ha or light snort or maybe both. Andy can’t really tell so busy is she from riding the high of being in the same vicinity of such a dangerous now semi-friendly creature._

_“I suppose once one gets past the age of twenty-one what’s the point?”_

Click.

The distance and angle changes. Taken at his side a couple feet away the position gives an uninhibited frontal view and it's then Andy can see what was so off. Held bound to the chair by several darkly colored ropes he was purposely positioned in such a way to give the illusion of a dinner guest, ready for their meal. Though now closer it was all but ruined when the sickly grey skin, slacked mouth, and open filmed over eyes come into view. Not to mention the deep laceration spanning from ear to ear across his throat.

It was oddly clean, Andy notes. Not even drop of blood anywhere.

_Andy agrees fully, nodding. No more milestones to look forward to. Cake, candles, or cheesy happy birthday songs. It’s saddening really._

_“But you do receive gifts, don’t you?”_

_“Not for the past two birthdays.”_

Click.

A pristine white dinner plate sits in the center of perfectly aligned silverware. The utensils glint in the bright lighting. Their purity and picturesque setting almost seem to mock her. Blood splashed snow. Everything pure in life is destined for corruption. Andy’s stomach contracts, pushing bile halfway up her throat. Washed of blood, and cleanly severed; a human heart stands out as the main course alongside a sprig of parsley.

Jesus Christ

-An autopsy later goes to reveal, along with the heart the pancreas and kidney were also removed. Their location, however, still remains a mystery.

_That’s because she ate them._

“Thought I’ll find you in here.”

Andy nearly jumps out of skin. Clutching at her chest, she looks at the figure currently striding in the room and scowls. “Jesus, Jackson! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Jackson chuckles. Green eyes twinkling madly behind a set of tortoise-rimmed speckles. "Sorry, Andy didn't mean to spook you. Just came down to let you know James has given the all clear for your wild goose chase."

Amusement floods from his face in the next second. 

"I still think it's a bad idea though; you getting involved with Priestly."

Andy just barely stifles a groan. This argument has been going on ever since she came back from the institute three days prior and frankly, she's getting tired of it all. "Jackson, we've been over this a hundred times. I'll be fine. Priestly's locked up she can't hurt me." 

 _"Really? Not even from your mentor, Mr. Jackson?"_  
  
_Andy gives a head shake._

_"Well, I suppose he wouldn't be much use in picking out something to go along with I don't know-" Miranda rakes her gaze of Andy's body. "that ensemble. A belt perhaps?" Nude lips give a tiny twitch._

_Andy bristles and feels an overwhelming urge to defend her friend."Not really and besides he knows I'm not into that fashion stuff."_

_Eyelids narrow barely showing the sapphires darkening to a turbulent sea. "Stuff?_

_"_ _You think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select... I don't know... that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise. It's not lapis. It's actually cerulean. And you're also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar de la Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns-"_

_Andy gets eviscerated.  Jesus. Note to self: never say anything against fashion ever again._

"I know that, I just don't want you getting roped into one of her games. You've read all the stories, know all the facts. The woman is a monster, Andy." Jackson spouts off valiantly, trying to drive to the nail in home. But it's already been slammed in--far too many times.

"Then why did you even send me to interview her in the first place?" Andy contorts, growing more and more miffed by the second. She hates it when people blatantly underestimate her because of her youth. 

"I don't know." He admits rather pathetically, mumbling afterward. "I wish now I hadn't."

Agitation fades away quickly giving way to understanding. Andy gives him a reassuring look. "It'll be fine. I promise."

Jackson sighs in defeat and looks back to the slide, the lens of his glasses blazing with a hellacious glow of gory images.

A heavy calming silence falls over the two.

“You know, when she first started out we all, of course, thought she was a man. Never really crossed our minds a woman was capable of..” Jackson motions to the image. “I mean, Jesus we even had a name for her-him.”  

Andy perks at the information. It really wasn't much of a surprise their first assumption was the killer was a male given the statistics, but this is the first she's hearing of a name.“Oh, what was it?”

Jackson's brow crinkles a bit in thought. “The Tailor of New York or the New City Tailor. Something along them lines. I can't remember.” 

Her nose twists. The FBI will never be known for their naming creatively that's for sure. Although, having studied and read up on every detail of just how Priestly took care of her victims Andy can see why the name fit. No matter what background the victims came from. Whether they were of the high sociality elite or struggling make rent every single body recovered was completely dressed in the finest clothing money can buy. From Gucci to yes, even Prada every outfit was specially tailored to fit that particular person. Even the colors were chosen with absolute care to enhance their natural features.

And just like Richerson, their bodies although never fully intact were all cleaned and propped up

She vaguely recalls when Miranda was first captured how the nation was absolutely stunned, that this beautiful elegant woman killed so many-so brutally. Of course, later on, when the facts came out fully she became the brunt of gender jokes. Leave it up to a woman to dress her kills. Harharhar.

Wait.

Deep down in the recess of her mind, wires begin to spark. Dress. Clothing. Tailor. The words swirl and turn over and over. There's something there something she's not seeing fully. 

"It's goddamn ridiculous, how easily she lead people on. _Leads_ people on.”  Jackson begins snapping Andy from her musing. He turns back to her, resting his hip on the end of the desk.”Did you know, once she pretended to go along with the previous hospital director, Jonathan Clarke, in some tests, sitting around with a blood-pressure tabs taped to her clitoris and nipples, looking at various gruesome pictures. Then she goes on to publish Clarke's work, making him out to be some sort of pervert. Well, needless to say, the outcry from Priestly's ‘followers’ was tremendous. Poor bastard lost his job and reputation all in one week. Priestly, on the other hand, gained a Santa’s bag worth of fan mail and support.”

Irritation and deep thought cause masculine features to scrunch. “I swear people will follow anything. Anybody. They're so stupid. Now Miranda Priestly, a cannibalistic woman with a borderline obsessive-compulsive disorder has a fucking fanbase.

Andy feels a small burst of amusement at his indignance. There's another thing that didn't really surprise her. All serial killers have a fanbase of sorts. They learned about it in, well here behavioral Science. Something about people being naturally drawn to the darkness and all that. Speaking with Miranda, however, Andy can begrudgingly admit she can see the appeal. The enticing primal part of evil Miranda seems to exude. It was intoxicating and damn near irresistible and on Andy nearly felt drunk. So, yes, she can see why anybody would fall under Miranda Priestly's thrall.

A mulling minute. There's another spark. This one more like a lightning strike.

Clothing, fashion, tailor, fanbase... 

Andy's blood runs cold as the last piece of the puzzle trickles into place. She jolts up, unknowing startling Jackson in the process and begins to immediately gather her things.

"Andy, what is it? What's going on?" Jackson questions face full of confusion and a bit of fear. 

"I-I gotta go." She all but runs out.

_Once done a brief albeit heavy silence falls over the duo as Miranda seemingly contemplates further. Finally, she speaks again. “I tell you what, Andréa. If you forget all about..that.” She motions toward the folder. “I’ll give you a little something. Something you'll like better than fashion stuff."_

_"What?"_

_"On your birthday go to the heart of Central Park at nine o' clock p.m. there you will be your gift." Miranda instructs cryptically._

_Andy opens her mouth only to be cut off by a wave of the hand._

_"Now, I do believe that’s all for today, don’t you, Andréa?"_

_“I um, yes,” Andy agrees. She begins to gather her things, mind still a whirl of questions and emotions._

_Ever polite, Miranda stands when Andy  does, running her hands down the front of her blocky shirt to straighten out the invisible wrinkles.“Remember what I said, Andréa. Nine O' Clock p.m.....Oh and also, do be careful of Claudia. She loves her girls; young, cream and unwilling. That's all.”_

Andy stabs at her phone and presses it hotly to her ear. It rings.... and rings. Come on, come on.

"Elias-Clarke hospit-"

"Hello, I need to speak to Mr.Ravitz." She rushes out breathlessly trotting up to the street.

"I'm afraid he's not in at the moment. May I take a message?" The woman drawls out slothlike. Andy internally groans recognizing the voice as being Irv's bitch assistant.

"Just tell him to call Andrea Sachs immediately when he gets a chance."

The woman agrees with a simple alright and hangs up. bitch. 

Andy tries for Jackson next. Nothing.

_"Shitshitshit."_

She quickly manages to hail herself a cab and gives the directions to the academy. Andy sits erect, ready for anything. If her prediction holds any truth at all then she'll be finding more than the lastest a pair of Jimmy Choos underneath a tree tomorrow.

She'll be finding its last model and all. 

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Had a horrible ear infection one week then my enormous family came down the next. And you just can't write in a house full of loud southern people.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Dear Andréa.

Quick gusts of wind cut through leave cluttered trees rattling and bending their branches to a near breaking point. Rain falls in constant sheets, pounding the pavement and washing away everything in its path. In the distant, a flash lights the nocturnal sky. Another storm is in full swing. 

Sable bangs plastered to her forehead, Andy trudges along a wide path. A mag light held at her side, off. The standard issued flashlight more for defense than illumination gives her a sense of comfort as she goes deeper and deeper into the heart of the concrete jungle's oasis where her present supposedly lies. She passes by a few brave individuals. Appearing and walking as though they were on the hunt for fresh  _brains_. She gives them a wide berth.

Central Park is oddly desolate tonight. Lifeless. The hair remains on constant alert at the back of her neck. 

Maybe it's the weather. The fear of mother nature's wrath. Or, maybe...just maybe it's the hint of something foreboding in the air.

Andy shivers against the cold breeze at her back and clutches her umbrella tighter. Her sneaker comes down puddle, sending a splash of water up the side of her pants leg. Damn it.

This is so totally not how she wanted to spend her birthday. 

It took her a while to get here. Or well, to convince everybody to allow her to come without backup. Foolish, most definitely yes, but necessary. Because if her theory was/is correct this may be her only chance in opening up an even bigger can of worms and Andy didn't want FBI's finest ruining it by coming in here all gung-ho. Guns drawn and everything.

Earlier in the day she finally got ahold of Irv who seemed all too eager to hear her 'sweet' voice. He carried on about this and that. But when asked if Miranda has acted strangely here of late, Andy could practically hear him shrug over the phone. Bastard. Bet if she did something with her tits he'd know. He did, however, mention that Claudia killed herself yesterday. Slammed her head into the wall repeatedly until her skull cracked. Supposedly Miranda was witnessed murmuring things to her.

Which was...well, she really didn't know what to feel about that to be perfectly honest. 

When Andy finally makes it into the heart. Her own is pounding at a rabbit pace. Having no knowledge of what she may find her imagination begins to run wild. Images of skinned corpses, organs, and filmy accusing eyes flash by. She switches on the mag and sweeps the beam of her languidly over the landscape beyond the flimsy fencing. Daring not to move and barely breathing. 

A crow lets out a caw to her right making her jump and whirl. Two beady eyes shine down from high in an enormous oak. It does not blink merely stares drawing in Andy in their inky depths. She looks away.

Another caw and the omen of death flies away leaving the fool to her fate. 

The search continues.

Andy stops, listens, and scans the area brush every few feet. Body posed akin to a wary deer, ready to sprint away at a moment's notice. The flashlight has become shaky in her grasp. Nothing, but trees and bushes so far. But still, she remains on edge. It's just something about the dark which makes everything appear ominous. Add in a rainstorm and it's downright terrifying. 

There's a bench ahead. Shrouded by shadows it seems to loom over the sidewalk. She brings her light over to it and nearly jumps out of her skin when the figure man appears. Clutching onto a beautiful bouquet of blue flowers, he sits leaning over, water dripping down from the rim of fedora into his lap. Asleep. He's asleep. Or more likely passed out. Andy lets out a calming breath followed by a humorless laugh. It's just a drunk. Someone waiting on a date that didn't show? Awe. The frigid wind nips at her damp skin reminding her of the present conditions.

Well, he can't stay here like this or he'll get sick. Die.  

Leftover Ohioan morals overriding newly NYC ones, Andy makes her way over to him. She stops close but not too close so as not to get a sloppy fist to the eye. A good person she may be, but Andy wasn't a complete idiot.  

"Sir, you need to wake up it's fixing to get colder." 

He doesn't even stir.

Andy crooks the flashlight precariously in her other arm and places the newly a hand on his shoulder. Cringing at the feel of gritty damp clothing beneath her fingertips.

"Sir?"

No answer. Dark eyebrows scrunch together as her concern grows.

"Sir?" She gives a shake only to let out a startled gasp when he slumps over on the bench. Shit. Andy quickly goes to check his pulse only to wrench her hand back when her fingers sink into a thick cold loose layer of skin. But something's not right. It feels odd like some sort of mas-. Heart galloping, Andy scrambles to shine the flashlight on his face. And in the next second, a strangled scream bursts from her lips.

The face of another sits akin to a Halloween mask over his own. Sewn-in along the hairline and jaw it's perfectly molded to his features.

Her gaze flickers to the flowers which have since fallen to the pavement by her feet.

They're blue, but the particular shade makes her blood run cold. Cerulean. 

* * *

_Two Days Later_

Women are such beautiful creatures. Miranda makes a swooping line on the concrete, a piece of black chalk held steady in her grasp. Full of curves, slopes and other wondrous things. Their bodies were the inspiration for many a starving artist. She switches from a blunt to sharp instrument, narrowing her eyes further in concentration. A cause for many deaths. Her tongue slyly peeks out through pale lips.     

Andréa has one such a body. A true testament to femininity beneath peasant rags. She’s built for birth. Life.

Miranda steps back from her work. A classic beauty of Venus peers back at her dawning a Chanel original. She smiles coyly secure in her own little concrete world, dark eyes a twinkle with mischief.

Miranda hates her. Loves her. Envies her.

Her nostrils flare. There’s a lingering hint of rain underneath the ever-present heavy scent of body odor. High above movement catches her eye. A single fat droplet of moisture traveling a rather dangerous pathway toward her artwork.

Miranda does nothing to stop it. Cornflowers contract as the bead runs straight through delicate features. The wall bleeds black.   

Her first taste was in weather such as this, albeit in its frozen form. 

Little Joanna, her very best friend at the time. Miranda remembers her red curly locks and lopsided smile fondly. She came to stay with her mother and her while their fathers fought in the war. Her own mother having since perished from consumption. The first few weeks were glorious; they played, laughed and played some more. But as time wore on, the food began to decrease.

Winter set in.

Then one day Joanna became ill. Her breathing ragged and crimson mane slicked back with sweat. Two days later something within her mother changed. Her demeanor hardened, a desperate glint took over her eye. Sometimes she'd just stare at Miranda's shirtless tiny body for minutes at a time before cutting her gaze over to the shuddering form occupying the only bed.

The next day, she scooped up Joanna without preamble and muttered something about a doctor as she looked everywhere but at Miranda. Two hours later her mother returned with no Joanna, but a silver pail full of freshly cut meat which is later cooked down into a hearty stew.

The meat was foreign, sweet on tongue and pale. 

Miranda ate two bowls. Greedy little mouth seemingly never getting enough as her mother watched onward with dead eyes and a warm encouraging smile.

A rhythmic clanking from just down the hallway snaps the doctor back to the present. Her head tilts to the right, listening. Pale lips slowly begin to curl. She’s wearing heels today.

Razor blade shape they stab mercilessly against the flooring.

_And she's angry._

The come to a halt right in front of her cell. “Dr. Priestly.” The doe snaps out with hoof.

Oh yes, someone was very angry indeed.

Hands crossed behind her back, Miranda turns ever so slowly. Her impassiveness belied by the amusement bubbling in her belly which only grows when at indignance etched across a normally sweet little face comes into view.

“Hello, Andréa.”

  
**TBC**....

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this you may recognize from another story of mine. But smh I was too lazy to come up with anything new.ha  
> Hope you enjoyed. This story probably won't be long. Another chapter or two. Got the second one nearly done. Just needs editing.


End file.
